


A Man's Measure: The Dragonlord's Son

by sharehenstar



Series: A Man's Measure [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A Man's Measure #7, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur's Scary When It Comes To Merlin, But So Is Merlin When It Comes To Arthur, Epic Bromance, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e13 The Last Dragonlord, F/M, Firsts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Arthur, Protective Merlin, Two Idiots Who Won't Admit Their Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharehenstar/pseuds/sharehenstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter has come to Camelot, and Destiny blows in with the snow, leaving Merlin with a few vital decisions to make…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dragonlord's Son (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2016, everyone! To start the new year off with a bang (well, sort of), I have begun the next installment in my A Man's Measure series. I really love this particular installment, and I hope you will see why—please enjoy!

**VII: The Dragonlord's Son (Part 1)**

As a general rule, Arthur did not do early mornings. Never had, and (he used to think) never would. Most manservants, rather than risk their master's wrath, would have let him sleep in and quietly taken Uther's punishment when the Crown Prince blamed his tardiness on them.

Merlin was not most manservants.

He'd poke and prod, layer his master with pearls of sarcasm, and (most recently) wheedle until Arthur's ears rang with it. Arthur used to think (and still persisted to think, at least to the outside world) that Merlin's methods had merely irritated him enough that he could no longer ignore them. In reality, he simply could not say "no" to him.

So he got up whenever Merlin wanted him up, albeit reluctantly and with vociferous complaining.

(Which Merlin ignored with the ease of long practice.)

On those rare occasions when Arthur _did_ get up on his own, _without_ his manservant's having to wake him, it was usually _because_ of Merlin, when the prince's worry over his manservant drove him to do foolish things.

Like tramp over an inch thick sheet of ice on one of Camelot's tallest battlements, for instance, because Guinevere had spotted Merlin heading up there at bloody seven o'clock in the morning.

(When queried about his unusually early rising, Arthur had refused to admit he'd _already_ been up, long before dawn, driven to distraction because Merlin seemed so _cheerless_ after their return from seeking the Dragonlord.)

"I am blaming you if Gaius tells my father I broke my neck."

The wind carried Arthur's voice as he carefully picked his way across the sleet-infested battlements to where Merlin stood at the wall, staring sightlessly past the moat to where they had so recently engaged in battle with the Great Dragon.

Half of Camelot's surrounding forest was a smoldering ruin; the other half (and Camelot itself) was strewn with rubble. By some miracle, the lower town had only lost its market, and several stalls belonging to tradespeople. Most houses looked rather singed, but it could have been so, _so_ much worse…

Merlin gave a noncommittal grunt that had Arthur glancing sharply at him.

Any other day, and his manservant would have snapped a witty retort. Instead, Merlin remained silent and the familiar blue orbs seemed…very far away.

Arthur didn't like it, the distance he sensed between them. Liked it even less when he realized he had no idea why it was _there_.

But Arthur, while adept at giving speeches, was horrible when it came to expressing his own emotions—or alleviating those of others.

So he reacted in the only way he knew how, when Merlin refused to rise to the bait: "Seriously, _Mer_ lin," demanded irritably, "how did you not trip and fall over your own two feet? _You're_ the one who is supposed to be inherently clumsy!"

(Performance on the practice fields aside. Honestly, how someone so fluid with daggers could drop so many platters mystified Arthur at the best of times.)

The prince's half-awake trek across the ice brought him to Merlin's side, where—at the last possible moment—he slipped and slid, stumbling (rather ungracefully) up against the cold stone wall.

Merlin's arm around his back, immediate and tight, startled him, even as his manservant made sure he regained his feet. At least it finally drew a reaction: "Perhaps I am simply not as clumsy as _you_ are, Your Highness," Merlin retorted fondly, withdrawing his arm.

Arthur scowled, and for more than the smart sally, " _Mer_ lin, how many times have I told you-"

"Oh, but, _Sire_ -!" exclaimed in mock-horror. "I daren't presume-"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur's extraordinarily dry tone never failed to draw a warm smirk to his manservant's lips (even if faint and a little distracted). "Pull the other one. It has bells on it."

A true grin spread across Merlin's lips, "And you say _I_ have a tendency to speak nonsense?"

Merlin probably should have expected the mixed exasperated and worried look that adorned Arthur's face, "Better nonsense than silence and diversion. Stop _hiding_ from me, Merlin—I'm not _that_ oblivious! I _can_ tell when something is wrong!"

_At least with you_ , the thought was added privately and not spoken.

Merlin may have heard it, anyway. His shoulders tensed, "What makes you think I am hiding anything? _Really_ , Arthur, I just-"

" _Shut. Up._ "

Stunned by the heat that never accompanied those two words, Merlin snapped his mouth shut, jerking around to stare wide-eyed at Arthur.

Perhaps the prince had not meant his frustration to seep into his voice (brought on by a deep concern he'd never admit to out loud), but this had bothered him for months, longer even, than the start of their quest to retrieve the Dragonlord, although that's when he'd first voiced it.

It had been there since late Summer, when the Knights of Medhir first made their appearance, and had only been exacerbated by finding a distressed Merlin bent over a deceased Dragonlord several days ago:

_He feared, at first, that Merlin had taken a serious injury, even though he well-knew his manservant's prowess with the daggers. But seeing Merlin wounded in battle had grown no easier with repetition, least of all when magical weaponry (as had happened with the Knights of Medhir) became involved._

_He remembered, still, the way his stomach had plummeted. Remembered also the way he'd had to choke back bile as he took in the black, ragged and inflamed, edges of the wound inflicted on Merlin by whichever Knight of Medhir had caught his preternaturally perceptive manservant unawares._

_He remembered scolding Merlin for leaving himself so vulnerable and open. Remembered, too, how he had had to distract himself from the burning sensation behind his eyes as he treated the wound under the younger man's guidance._

_He wondered if Merlin remembered what happened afterwards, once the scrap he'd torn from his tunic had been wrapped and tied off around the slender bicep. Wondered if his manservant remembered that Arthur, a little too overcome by the knowledge that Merlin_ _**could** _ _, in fact, get hurt, had dropped his head to press its brow against the by-then-bandaged wound._

_The Crown Prince certainly did, and found himself reminded of it all too forcefully now, when confronted by the harsh gasps for air and shaking back of his rapidly-growing-dearer friend._

" _Merlin," his throat closed up, as his heart jumped into his larynx. He barely even registered that the last hope for Camelot most likely lay dead on the forest floor, too consumed by the raw terror that had frozen his stomach solid. His breath caught in his chest, "Merlin, please, are you-?"_

_His voice must have reached the younger man, because all at once a smothered—nearly strangled—sound emitted from (as Arthur could now see) his manservant's cracked and bleeding lips._

_The well-known back tensed, and before Arthur could properly panic, his distraught friend_ _**literally** _ _tore himself away from the unmoving form surrounded by the detritus of the woods._

_Arthur knew a new kind of panic then, when a clearly unwounded, but nowhere near stable, Merlin rose shakily to his feet, scrubbing at a last few, stubborn tears as he turned to face him._

_Camelot's Crown Prince barely had time to process that yes, in fact, the last Dragonlord lay dead, before his gaze was inextricably caught by the wooden expression on his normally_ _**all too** _ _expressive manservant's face._

IOIOIOIOIOI

Shuddering slightly at the remembered deadened expression in formerly bright blue and unguarded eyes, Arthur forced his own eyes open, praying they did not look as wet as they felt.

Merlin, _as usual_ , knew when something was wrong, just as much as Arthur did, even if he did not know exactly _what_. His fingers tangled in the prince's leather sleeve as he brushed the older boy's arm: "Arthur?" murmured, as dark brows furrowed with concern.

Arthur blew out a short breath, now more frustrated with his inability to articulate his worry (in a way that was not absolutely embarrassing, that is) than with Merlin himself, "You are a horrible liar, _Mer_ lin, you know that? And you can't hide _when_ you're hiding something to save your life."

"Seems to have worked just fine on you," muttered in a low tone that suggested he hoped Arthur did not hear him as he turned away to hide his face.

So of course Arthur did.

" _Mer_ lin!" accompanied by a not-so-gentle swat to the back of the manservant's head.

" _Ow_!" Merlin winced, rubbing the back of his head, and spun to face the Crown Prince with a scowl. "Arthur…!"

Arthur looked singularly unapologetic, crossing his arms over his chest with a growl, " _Tell_ me what is going _on_!" demanded. "Is your mother ill? Has Ealdor been raided again? I can send some of the Knights to-"

Soft, cracking laughter interrupted the Crown Prince, and Arthur tried to glare at its source, more anxious and unhinged by the _bitterness_ behind it than he ever cared to admit.

Merlin gave another short, no less broken, bark of a laugh as he impatiently scrubbed tears off his cheeks. Arthur felt his stomach clench as he found himself brutally reminded of his words to Merlin not even a full week ago: _"No man is worth your tears."_

He had meant them as comfort. It was quite clear it hadn't worked.

"Merlin-" he began uncomfortably.

Merlin shook his head firmly, scrubbing yet more tears off his cheeks as a tiny, barely-there smile flitted across his lips, "You can't always fix something by sending your army out to defeat it, Arthur," he murmured.

Arthur clenched his fists against the cold stone of the wall as he turned his glare down to them, "I can certainly try," he snarled softly, hating that he could hear the waver in his manservant's voice and do nothing to alleviate it.

Merlin snorted quietly, thick and wet, "I doubt even _you_ can circumvent death, Your Highness."

Arthur straightened abruptly, his eyes instantly narrowing in on his companion beside him, "Death? Merlin, does this have something to do with the Dragonlord?"

"His _name_ ," Merlin retorted vehemently, stance suddenly far stiffer than Arthur thought boded well for the rest of their conversation, "was _Balinor_ , _**Sire**_."

The heat in Merlin's voice took Arthur entirely aback, and he could not prevent one of his hands from reaching out to touch his manservant's shoulder in response, "Merlin, I didn't mean… _why_ are you so upset about this? I mean, yes, he was a good man, and I am sorry he got…killed…" Merlin flinched beneath his hand, "the way he did, but-"

But the younger man had already begun shaking his head again, and stepped back from underneath Arthur's touch, "You don't _understand_ , Arthur. He-"

"Then _help_ me understand, _Mer_ lin!" frustration and worry and a bit of his own grief saturated the Crown Prince's voice as he prevented his friend from retreating inside the castle by grabbing both of his shoulders. " _I_ can't help _you_ if you won't tell me why he's so important!"

Merlin tried to twist out of Arthur's grip, but the prince grit his teeth and tightened his hold, even as both of Merlin's own hands impacted his chest.

"It isn't like _you_ care," retorted scathingly, as his manservant shoved ineffectually at his chest.

There was a nearly audible crack as Arthur thrust his forehead forward against Merlin's. Wide blue eyes stared up at him as Merlin scrambled to process exactly what that particular gesture meant.

(At the very least, it startled the younger boy enough that he stopped struggling.)

The words tumbled from Arthur's lips without his conscious consent, "You'd be surprised by how _much_ I care."

_End The Dragonlord's Son (Part 1)_


	2. The Dragonlord's Son (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin's third winter in Camelot heralds change, some far more sinister than others...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! It's been a while! But rest assured I have worked on this installment—quite a bit actually. Of all the chapters of all the AMM installments, this one proved one of the most difficult, as I had a picture in my head of where I wanted it to go, but needed to craft it in such a way that I could illustrate it for you ::grins::. The end result is below—please enjoy!

**VII: The Dragonlord's Son (Part 2)**

" _You'd be surprised by how_ _ **much**_ _I care."_

Merlin swallowed against the lump that had lodged itself in his throat, crumpling his shaking hands into Arthur's thick winter cloak and all too aware of the warmth pressing against his forehead.

He had not expected Arthur to come after him. Had not realized his demeanor had altered enough that it gave the prince sufficient cause for worry.

(Because Arthur _did_ worry, no matter what the prat may claim.)

Arthur's worry flattered Merlin, truly, but at times it unsettled him just _how well_ the Crown Prince could read him.

It made him fear that his secrets—one secret in particular—were not so well guarded as he liked to think. Arthur never asked, however, nor ever alluded to it, and Merlin intended to keep his silence for as long as Uther remained on Camelot's throne.

Including about his father's identity. Or, well, he _would have_ , had Arthur not stuck his nose in Merlin's business and refused to take it out.

Merlin would be unable to deny him for long, not with those blue eyes piercing so _earnestly_ and so _warmly_ into his own.

And that gaze—so unguarded, so intent on _helping_ …

Merlin swallowed again, harshly, and tried to push away. "Please don't look at me like that," whispered.

Arthur's hands curled around the back of his neck to hold him in place and the prince's lips pulled down into a frown, "Why not?"

Forced to look up at him, Merlin inhaled shakily and murmured, "Because if you do," his voice cracked once, "if you do…I won't be able to stop myself from blurting out absolutely everything, and I don't…I can't…" his voice cracked twice and gave out.

He would have expected this Arthur—the gently persistent, doggedly determined one—to push for the rest of the answer, push just a little too hard or a little too much. Then Merlin would say something he'd regret, and _Arthur_ would end up furious with him—

But Arthur did nothing of the sort. In sharp contrast to his earlier demeanor, the Crown Prince outright grinned, "Why, _Mer_ lin…!" drawled, even as Arthur kept their heads pressed together. "You really _can't_ say 'no' to me!"

He really was such a very, very large prat. Merlin could not help feeling pathetically grateful for that fact.

" _Arthur_ …!" the warlock's fist whirled out at the smirking prince. "You are _such_ an _arrogant_ , _**dollop-headed**_ , _GIT_!"

With each insult another smack landed on Arthur's chest, or Arthur's arm, or Arthur's shoulder. Arthur, incidentally, did nothing more than laugh _harder_ , the bloody tosser.

(Of course, Merlin hadn't really _tried_ all that hard to hit him.)

As Merlin continued soundly thumping him, Arthur's laughter faded to snickers, then to the occasional snort, until finally, he reached for Merlin with a cough that concealed a satisfied grin, "You _are_ smiling, though," he pointed out softly, as he grabbed the younger man's hands.

Merlin's mouth dropped into an "O" of surprise when he realized what the prince's statement implied.

Arthur shrugged, a hint of color in his cheeks as he squeezed the slim fingers, frowning slightly when a puff of cold air caused Merlin to shudder and remove his hands to hitch his leather jacket closer to his ears.

Uncertainly, Arthur lowered his hands, peeking almost shyly at Merlin as he stuffed them under his arms for warmth: "I haven't seen your smile for three days," he murmured, giving a helpless shrug.

Those _words_ …a sharp pain thrust itself up under Merlin's ribs. Why could he never deny them, let alone their owner? Arthur's words always had the disconcerting habit of convincing him to do exactly the _opposite_ of what he'd originally intended to do, and required decisions he was not ready to make.

"Arthur…" the warlock began, disliking his own hesitance.

Fortunately, or, perhaps, unfortunately, before he could reveal anything of any great magnitude, a throat cleared not three yards from them and prompted Merlin to jump, starting him on a slide across the ice. When the prince noticed he had lost his footing, his hands immediately grasped Merlin's forearms to steady him.

Grabbing Arthur's elbows to prevent himself from toppling over, Merlin froze, and felt the tips of his ears grow warm when a polite cough revealed their visitor's identity to be Sir Kay.

Arthur quickly released him (once the prince was assured Merlin would remain standing, that is), and turned to Sir Kay, the heightened color of his cheeks shabbily concealing his embarrassment.

Sir Kay look at least as embarrassed as the two of them combined, "My apologies, Si—Arthur." His cheeks glowed red, even as he nodded to Merlin and Arthur in turn, "My Lord Uther requested that I summon you for breakfast and the council afterwards. He wishes you to form patrols to search for the Lady Morgana."

Merlin's stomach flip-flopped as he watched Arthur step away from him, straightening at his side and shuttering his face. The Crown Prince returned Sir Kay's nod, "Very well. Kay, please inform my father I will be there shortly and then join us with Sir Leon and four other knights of his choosing at half-past the next hour."

Sir Kay bowed, and gazed at Merlin intently for a tenth of a second, before striding off to fulfill Arthur's request perhaps a little more quickly than the situation warranted.

Merlin's brow furrowed as he watched the knight's hasty retreat, and he nearly jumped again when a mutter came from Arthur at his left, "He was acting odd. It wasn't just me, was it?"

Despite himself and despite the situation, Merlin could not prevent a small smirk from twitching his lips. However, when he opened his mouth to retort, Arthur glanced up at him sharply and scowled, "Answer the question honestly, _Mer_ lin."

The corner of Merlin's lips softened, and the smirk disappeared as he pressed them into a thin line, "It's not just you, Arthur," murmured, "I noticed it, too. _Have_ noticed it, in fact, for a while. So has Leon. Ever since Morgana…" he trailed off, his stomach squirming uncomfortably, as he tried figure out what to say and _how to_ say it.

The Crown Prince sighed—a heavy sigh, fraught with exhaustion—and scrubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Merlin swallowed harshly, reaching out to touch his prince, "Arthur," he tried again, gripping the older boy's wrist.

Arthur turned to him with an expression more reminiscent of a grimace than the small grin he obviously meant it as, "I would ask you to join us in the council chamber," the Crown Prince murmured, meeting Merlin's gaze with one so full of frank honesty that the manservant nearly blushed, "you are one of my best fighters, after all. But I know you have duties to attend to for both Gaius and I."

Another gust of chill wind whipped Merlin's dark hair about his face, and he withdrew his hand to clutch his arms closer to his body. He did manage a tiny smile, though, easily falling back into the role he played best (namely, Arthur's protector and occasional confidant), "You can tell me when I bring your dinner." Every bit of humor he could dredge up from within him went into the next remark, "After all, I doubt you'll give me a choice in the matter."

It won him, at last, a genuine smile from Arthur, "You never really had one to begin with."

Merlin snorted out a somewhat strangled laugh, and would have tacked on a smart sally, had not the wind chosen that moment to pick up.

When an additional shudder wracked the younger man's body, Arthur frowned thoughtfully and reached up to undo the clasp of his heavy cloak. Before Merlin could protest, the prince swung it around his wiry shoulders. As warmth engulfed his slender frame, Merlin wrapped his hands in the extra folds and shivered again, though not quite as badly. "Arthur…?" he inquired softly, bewildered.

Arthur did up the epaulet at his throat, then kept his hands there, tangled in the hood. Intently, he met Merlin's gaze, "And _you_ tell _me_ when you are ready, all right?"

Whatever he might have said in return, Merlin promptly choked on it, throat seizing up as they came full circle.

Tugging the hood up over the warlock's head, Arthur regarded him earnestly, "Will you promise me that, Merlin?"

Merlin opened and closed his mouth once. Twice. Then, finally, nodded.

Pleased, Arthur gave his manservant's shoulders a squeeze and turned, striding off towards the castle. Merlin watched him go, clenching the folds of his hood together against the swirling and bitter cold.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Three hours later, Sir Kay found Merlin by the castle's main well, just as the lanky servant had hauled up a pail of the bitingly cold water.

This time when Sir Kay cleared his throat, Merlin nearly tripped over his own two feet whirling around to face him. The bucket he held sloshed, spilling part of its contents across the frozen cobblestones of the courtyard and soaking a corner of Arthur's cloak (which Merlin still wore).

Placatingly, Kay held up his hands, palms out, "Peace, my friend," he murmured, looking sheepish, "I did not mean to startle you."

Merlin released a breath he had not realized he'd been holding, "Sir Kay," he acknowledged quietly, nodding to the young knight as he set the wooden bucket down at his feet.

"Merlin," Kay nodded back, expression still distinctly embarrassed. He shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, before venturing hesitantly, "How…how are you?"

Merlin colored as he realized that—apparently—Arthur had not been the only one to notice his changed demeanor.

(Of course, Kay finding he and Arthur ensconced at the very top of the very tallest tower in Camelot, far from any prying ears or eyes, had probably sped the process up a bit.)

"Better," he finally conceded, re-wrapping his red and chapped hands in the cloak's warm, woolen folds as he watched the knight walk closer.

Sir Kay adjusted his own cloak, pulling to within an arm's length of Merlin and stopping there, "Good. I am glad. You…you haven't been yourself these last few practices, Merlin, and I…" he trailed off there, apparently unused to expressing concern over a servant.

Merlin freed one hand to rub it across his face in an attempt to cool his burning cheeks, _Gods, was I really so transparent? No_ _ **wonder**_ _Arthur worried._

However, Kay did not seem to be forthcoming with any further information, and the silence stretched between them, heavy and more than a little awkward.

Even though he and Kay had come to an understanding (of a sort) after the single combat, they did not interact much outside of the practice fields, having little in common aside from their preference for daggers and their loyalty to Arthur. Therefore, Merlin could not imagine why Kay sought him now.

"Has the council adjourned?" he ventured at last, when it became apparent that Sir Kay intended to stay.

Uncomfortably, Sir Kay swiped his hands across his breeches, "It has," he replied. "More than half an hour past, by the sun's shadow."

"Oh," Merlin's eyebrows snapped together, slightly surprised that Arthur had not come himself to fetch his wayward manservant, "I ought to head to the kitchens, then. Arthur will be expecting his meal." Stooping, he reached for the pail, intending to carry it with him inside.

Kay abruptly darted forward, grabbing Merlin's hand just as he grasped the rope handle, "Merlin, _wait_!"

The manservant startled so badly he nearly dropped the bucket in question. Luckily, Kay had anticipated that, and carefully helped him lower it to the ground.

"Wait," requested again, more softly. "There's something I need to ask you."

Swallowing against the sudden, horrible lump that had leapt into his throat, Merlin nodded wordlessly for the knight to go ahead.

Sir Kay fidgeted anxiously for a moment with his own hands, before glancing up uncertainly at the younger man, "Merlin, have…have you noticed anything…odd, lately? Regarding the knights?"

The warlock straightened cautiously, water pail all but forgotten. "If I have?" asked delicately.

Kay gave a tight-lipped smile, eyes crinkling at their edges with an interesting cross between mirth and anxiety, "Aside from me, that is."

Although it had not been his intention, Merlin relaxed at the stilted teasing, "Only a few knights in particular. Why?"

If possible, Sir Kay looked even more uneasy. He inhaled sharply, "I-I suspect Sir Boris—and a few others—aren't…quite as loyal...as they make themselves out to be."

_End The Dragonlord's Son (Part 2)_


	3. The Dragonlord's Son (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, and Arthur finds himself--and his manservant--in the midst of it all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in order to start building the rest of the structure that will guide my remaining stories, I've started adding rather more obvious hints of Arthur/Gwen in my chapters. For those of you who have read my story The Chess Master's Queen on AO3, I promise there will be plenty of hints towards Arthur/Merlin, as well. Especially as I've added another chapter to the chapter count! Please enjoy this thoroughly :)

**VII: The Dragonlord's Son (Part 3)**

Arthur's stomach informed him the bell for the midday meal would toll in another hour. Merlin, therefore, ought to be expecting him soon and, as such, would be nowhere near the market.

Which worked out perfectly for his plans.

(It wasn't easy, after all, hiding Yule gifts from one's extraordinarily observant manservant. _Particularly_ when that manservant tidied one's bed chambers on a daily basis.)

Of course, many of the lower town's occupants seemed cognizant of the same thing. On every side, Arthur found himself jostled by his people, many whom hawked their wares and what produce they had acquired over the long autumn months, and many more who hassled and bargained with those who sought to sell it to them. In such a hive of activity, Arthur could hope he passed unnoticed through the crowd.

"And what business might the Crown Prince have in the market?" the low voice at his elbow caused Arthur to stiffen, and futilely try to shrug further into his second-best cloak.

(His _best_ cloak, of course, was presumably still with Merlin.)

He blew out a small breath when the speaker gained his side and resolved themselves into "Sir Bors," acknowledged softly around the edge of his hood.

The knight raised an eyebrow, easily falling into step beside him, "You are foolhardy, Sire, to wander around the lower town on your own. Without an escort."

"I might say the same of a Camelot knight," Arthur returned shortly, too wary around this man and his brother to explain himself as he might have to Leon or Kay.

Bors shrugged congenially, releasing a long sigh, and not affected in the least by his young liege's ire, "Alas, I find my brother far too fond of mead and the delusions brought with it. To all our detriments, I fear."

A tradesperson, late to open his stall, brushed gruffly past them. Arthur coolly sidestepped the man's headlong hurtle, before turning to examine his knight would-be casually from the shelter of his cloak, "Is Sir Boris, indeed?"

The inquiry was mild. Sir Bors's other eyebrow rose, and he smiled tightly, with closed lips, in a way Arthur hesitantly identified as pleased, "Contrary to what your manservant would have me believe, you are not, as he would say, 'daft.'"

Arthur, despite himself and despite the situation, sniffed, "'Daft,' is it? Hmph. I'll show _him_ daft," grumbled, as he abruptly put power into his stride and focused his eyes ahead, intent on parting the crowd to reach his destination.

Sir Bors shook his head disbelievingly, and hurried to catch up to his young monarch, "You are most forgiving, Sire," he observed softly, once he finally regained the Crown Prince's side. "I have known kings and princes—even _princesses_ —who would have cut out a servant's tongue for lesser words than these."

Arthur's shoulders tensed, and he stole a glance at his knight from beneath his hood, "We do not condone such barbarities here."

"So I gathered," Sir Bors returned dryly, glancing pointedly at the set of Arthur's shoulders.

The Crown Prince shook himself, striving to look unaffected. Sir Bors smirked faintly, "Peace, Sire. It is merely an observation. I have been in Camelot nigh four months now, and yet some things still manage to surprise me. Your manservant…is one among many."

Any pretense of indifference shattered. As Arthur's shoulders seized up, he snapped his gaze to Sir Bors, expression so fierce that the proud knight nearly stumbled.

_He dares-!_

Immediately, Sir Bors held his hands up, palm out, and backed away slightly, "Your Highness, please…I meant nothing by it, only that you have…a very peculiar manservant."

When a passerby glanced curiously in their direction, Arthur blew out a short breath, adjusted his hood, and backed down, attempting to ease the tension singing through his veins.

(It did not really work.)

"Impertinent is perhaps a better description," he grumbled.

A faint, startled smirk touched Sir Bors lips, and he tipped his head in acknowledgement, "To which I concede," he murmured.

Silence settled between them for a few minutes, fairly awkward as they navigated the streets near the market. At last, the older man glanced curiously at the Crown Prince, "It is not an average servant who wins the prince's favor, however, Sire."

Arthur quietly turned red, grateful for the partial concealment of the hood. He remained obstinately silent, though, knowing he had given too much of himself away earlier, when he jumped to Merlin's defense.

(He conveniently forgot his _actual_ favor still adorned Merlin's dagger, and _was_ still displayed for any who might care to see it during weapons' practice.)

Perhaps Sir Bors knew this, for his smirk widened into something a little more self-deprecating, "Of course, any servant who faces down a dragon _would_ have to be extraordinary."

_WHAT?_

Arthur glanced up sharply, "How do you mean, Sir?"

Startled by the demand, Sir Bors momentarily paused, allowing the busy traffic of the lower town to weave around them, "You were unaware, Sire? I thought surely…" he trailed off.

Arthur halted, sighing heavily, and pinched the bridge of his nose, as it occurred to him he now had yet something _else_ to add to his growing list of worries concerning Merlin. "I was unconscious for part of that battle, Sir Bors, as you know. I can only assume that Merlin did so in my defense."

He rather _knew_ Merlin had done so, in fact. Even days after the fact, he still felt a little awed and quite a bit humbled to know that his manservant would willingly face a gods-thrice damned _dragon_ at his side.

Sir Bors shook his head again, as they resumed their path, "As I said, Sire, a remarkably peculiar manservant." A small, wry smile twisted his lips, "He does not seem terribly impressed by your…ah…insight, certainly, but will rush to your defense without a moment's hesitation." His lips compressed, and his eyes took on a darker hue, "Such a tendency, however, will, I fear, prove a detriment one day."

The knight had barely finished his thought when he found himself fetched up painfully against a wall in a shadowed alleyway, his hauberk hitched up beneath his arms and his young monarch's hand clenched in a fist at his throat.

"You keep _saying_ that," Arthur snarled, "and it needs to be clarified _now!_ If I didn't know any better," and he tightened his grip, pressing his lips into a thin line of their own, "I would say you are _threatening_ my manservant!"

"It is not _I_ who threatens him, Your Majesty," hissed softly, as Sir Bors grit his teeth, grabbed Arthur's fist, and shoved it down. "My brother, however, _does_."

IOIOIOIOIOI

Just as the midday bell tolled, Arthur made it through the side entrance to the kitchen, nearly colliding with Guinevere in his haste not to be missed.

Morgana's absence and Arthur's wish to keep her close had Guinevere splitting her duties between Gaius, the kitchen, and some of the lesser ladies of the court; as such, he had not seen her as much as he might have wished. Now, she beamed at the sight of him, "Arthur!" Guinevere exclaimed, highly pleased.

A throat cleared behind them, and when Prince and maidservant turned towards the source, they found the head cook eyeing Guinevere with a rather hostile expression.

(The other head cook—Arthur's favorite head cook—was Margot, who would have bustled to the other side of the kitchen in order to give them some pretense of privacy. No such accommodations were made by this woman.)

Hastily, under the head cook's sour smile, Guinevere dropped into a curtsy, and immediately adopted the more formal jargon of the castle's servants, "Forgive me, my Lord. How might I help you?" Guinevere's cheeks glowed red with embarrassment.

Despite the situation, Arthur still thought her beautiful.

"Guinevere," he nodded to her, and returned glare for glare with the head cook, having not patience for formalities or nosy kitchen staff on this day. "Have you seen Merlin?"

His question drew the young woman completely out of her curtsy, and she blinked at him, gracefully raising one slim, dark eyebrow as she took note of the various packages concealed under his cloak.

(Well, he had (almost) always known her to be clever.)

Keenly aware of the head cook's glower, Guinevere bowed her head to him, "He was just here, my Lord. You will find your dinner has been set up in your chambers by now. Shall I fetch him, Sire?"

Arthur shook his head, intently meeting her gaze for a moment, before turning to the head cook, "Leave us."

The pot top clattered as the head cook abruptly released it. Guinevere recoiled in surprise. "My Lord-!" the older woman sputtered in objection.

"It was not a request, Cook Marion," returned tersely, as he took note of Gwen's flinch.

Head Cook Marion curtsied stiffly, scowled at Guinevere, and marched out of the kitchen.

Immediately, Arthur turned to Guinevere, "Has she been unkind to you?"

Guinevere started, clearly not anticipating the demand. Noticing his rapidly darkening scowl at her continued silence, she quickly shook her head, "No more than usual, Arthur. Morgana used to rebuke her, so she hasn't done it in a while, only…"

The maidservant shrugged, looking, suddenly, terribly lonely. Unwillingly, Arthur found himself remembering the ache that had pervaded his chest during much of the Catrina diabolical. If what Gwen felt now was anything like what he felt then…

Shaking his head at the memory, he gently took Guinevere's arm and tugged her into a shadowed corner, hoping to conceal them (at least a little) from prying eyes. "I promise I will do everything I can to bring her home," he assured his almost-sister's best friend softly.

Smiling weakly, Guinevere nodded. A swift glance to the right and the left, then around and behind them, and her hand was against his cheek, smelling faintly of the onions she must have been peeling for the midday meal. "I know you will, Arthur," she murmured, gazing up at him with brown eyes shining deep and tender. "I trust you."

Unable to help himself, Arthur kissed her palm, "I have a request, Gwen…"

When he used her nickname, Gwen knew he needed friend and not lover right now. "What is it, Arthur?"

IOIOIOIOIOI

Arthur took his leave of Guinevere only a few minutes later, absolutely anxious to find his manservant. Anxious enough that the welcome liaison with her could not quite quell the nausea that had twisted his stomach into knots ever since Sir Bors had left him at the steps of the King & Arms Tavern.

He knew why, of course, even if he intended to keep that knowledge to himself for as long as he possibly could:

Once, long before he had ever met Merlin, or known Guinevere as anything other than the armorer's daughter, a coup had been staged against his father and an assassination attempt made on his life.

He had been fourteen, then, and ridiculously lucky to escape with nothing more than a dislocated shoulder.

As such, he had known his share of treasonous knights.

Merlin hadn't. He should never even have been dragged into something like that in the first place.

Although, as apathetic as his manservant had been recently, Arthur had to wonder if the younger man would care at all.

Therefore, the Crown Prince was understandably stunned when, upon opening his chamber door, he found himself with an armful of frantic manservant.

"Where have you _been_?" Merlin demanded, grabbing Arthur by his upper arms in an attempt not to topple them both. "I've looked _everywhere_ for you!"

Normally, Arthur would have had a scathing retort at the ready ("Are you my _wife_ , _Mer_ lin?"), but as it happened, he had his own worry in mind.

"I have something I need to tell you!" they both blurted at the same time.

_End The Dragonlord's Son (Part 3)_


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